Page 120 of Dukes of Peril

“God, you’re going to look perfect with my cum dripping down your chin.” Bruce’s eyes are glazed with the booze and lust, but beneath it, I see a murderous spark, jaw tight as he unzips.

I look around, desperate to find help. Not all these people are bad, I reason. They can’t be. This isn’t a room full of rapists and abusers. They aren’t Counts.

But I make eye contact with one guy–a forty-something VIP–and he just smirks, jabbing his friend with an elbow. I hear laughter, and their words might be muffled, but I catch enough to make my blood turn to ice.“Count, North Side, whore, traitor, on her knees where she belongs…”

Soon we’re surrounded by horny former frat boys, blocking me from the rest of the room. “Is this part of the show?” one guy asks, pulling out his phone.

Another executive-type comes up behind him to say, “Finally. Was starting to wonder why I bothered dropping seven grand on this.”

The walls close in on me. Brice’s grip tightens on my shoulders, Bruce reaching into his open pants, eyes glinting with an evil I’ve never seen. Not at the Hideaway. Not in the tower. “First,” Bruce says, voice gruff, “you’re going to take my cum. Then my brother is going to drag you out of here, and trust me. What he’ll do to you will make you beg for my cock again.”

A deep feral scream rips from my throat as I jerk away from Brice and reach to the back of my head. The hairpin slips from my hair, the weight perfect in my hand, and I slash out, the razor-sharp tip slashing satisfyingly across Bruce’s cheek.

There’s a split moment of stillness where the red burbles up, blood appearing as if from out of nowhere, and then Bruce reaches up to touch it, fingertips coming away crimson. “You fucking bitch!” he shouts, blood racing in fat streams down his cheek. His arm jerks back, fist curled, and I know how hard he can punch. He’s one of the best fighters in the frat. He swings, fist barreling toward my face, and I brace myself for the hit.

It never comes.

His arm is stopped mid-swing, his elbow twisted back. I don’t even hesitate. As soon as he’s restrained, I spin around, stabbing Brice in the thigh. He releases a pained snarl, but instead of reaching for the hairpin, he lashes out at me, palm slamming like fire into my cheek. It knocks me to the side, the bloody pin still clutched in my fist as I topple over.

The sound of a gun’s hammer cocking plunges the space in a frozen silence.

“Touch her again,” Nick says, the barrel of his gun pressed to Bruce’s temple, “and I’ll spray your whole family with your brother’s brains–assuming he has any.”

I gaze up at him, palm pressed to my stinging face. The anger rolling off Nick isn’t just something you can feel. You can see it, a low hum vibrating across his skin.

Nick Bruin is looking for a reason.

Any reason.

Bruce’s family must see it too, because suddenly, everyone’s pulling out a gun, Brice’s hand forming a tight fist in my hair. There’s something cool against my temple, and I know immediately that Brice has a barrel pressing into me.

“Let him go,” Brice barks, and all around us, more guns are coming out, one by one. Even the geriatric Duke–class of 1958–who had to be parked at the blackjack table with his walker, tugs a pistol from his jacket.

Fucking West End and their fucking guns…

“Gentlemen,” comes a voice that’s far too friendly for the standoff, Nick’s eyes flicking from me to Brice’s gun. “If those guns are loaded, then you’re breaking an unspoken rule of the event. If they’renotloaded, then you just look ridiculous. Either way,” Saul breaks through the throng, assessing the scene in front of him, “this is unseemly.”

“It’s going to get bloody,” Nick grits out, and from Bruce’s wince, he’s driving the barrel in harder, “unless this sack of shit lets her go.”

Saul looks first at me, then at Nick, his nostrils flaring as he flicks a hand. “Put your guns away.” When no one moves, he snaps, “Right fucking now!”

Brice is the first to move, and I gasp in relief as the metal disappears, the hand in my hair giving me a sharp shove before he steps away. Nick moves next, hurling Bruce into the table as he lowers his gun.

I feel a soft hand on my arm, but flinch, slashing the hair pin in that direction. “Whoa,” Laura says, hands up in surrender. “It’s just me.”

“Sorry,” I say, cradling my cheek as she helps me stand. That’s when I see both Sy and Remy at the back of the room, Saul’s security restraining them both. From the way their shirts are mussed and tangled, they tried fighting back, too.

Both of them are ashen, watching me with wide, panicked eyes.

I want nothing more than to run to them–to Nick–but then Saul lets out this curt, irritated sigh and says, “Ewing, I’ve had enough of this.” Jerking his head, he orders, “Head across the park. Get Payne. We’ll put an end to this now.”

“No!” I shout, tearing away from Laura. Every eye in the room snaps in my direction. Including Nick’s. Approaching Saul, I beg, “Please don’t,” lowering my voice to a strained whisper.

Saul narrows his eyes. “Why shouldn’t I? I made my demands perfectly clear. The two of you were to act as hosts. You were to provide entertainment.” He looks around at the blood and the toppled table top. “As thrilling as this has been, it’s not what you promised.”

“I-I’ll do it,” I stutter, untying my robe. “I’ll go dance. Right now.”

Saul looks unimpressed, mouth pinching in distaste. “You think these men came here for some amateur striptease, Lucia?” Gesturing to the crowd, most stopping their games to spectate, he says, “Not good enough.”

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